


Last Friday

by Luthien



Category: First Monday, Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 20:50:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthien/pseuds/Luthien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year or two after he finishes his clerkship at the Supreme Court, Julian discovers the hard way that sometimes the path ahead contains twists and turns you don't expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Friday

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Huge thanks to kai, Nym and Telanu for looking this over, and to arsenicjade for legal advice.
> 
> 2\. This is a crossover with Stargate, featuring a pre-Atlantis Rodney McKay. Goes AU during the events of the SG-1 episode "48 Hours", which first introduced the character of McKay.

It's the middle of a late summer heatwave when the world comes crashing down around Julian. When he later looks back on this period, all of his memories are tinged with the feel of his shirt sticking against his sweaty skin, and the glare of the too-hot sun that's strong enough to match the murderous stares of his erstwhile employers.

 

The heatwave breaks the same day that Julian's career path does. He walks out of the offices of Lampell, Lowenstein and Burke for the last time on the Friday before Labor Day, briefcase in one hand and a cardboard box containing his few personal items clutched against his chest with the other. He looks straight ahead as he makes his way down the corridor past the offices of the junior associates, proud that he doesn't flinch from anyone's gaze. Or at least he wouldn't flinch, if given the opportunity, but no one's prepared to look him in the eye. Not until Karen, the office manager, hurries over, stopping him just short of the elevators.

 

"I'm sorry, Mr. Lodge, but I'll need to double-check your things before you depart the building," she says with a cool, professional smile.

 

"I'm sorry?" Julian curses silently as his voice cracks the slightest bit at the end of the question, and he swallows hard.

 

"I just need to check that you haven't accidentally packed up anything belonging to the firm along with your things."

 

Julian hadn't expected that anything else about this situation would have the power to get to him after the events of the past few days, but her words take him enough by surprise that he just stands there and stares at her for a couple of seconds while he tries to think of a response that isn't distastefully crude.

 

Karen takes advantage of his silence and repeats, "I'm sorry, Mr. Lodge. Mr. Lowenstein specifically required that I check."

 

She looks him squarely in the eye, at least. He'll give her that much. He hands over the box without further comment.

 

"And your briefcase, too, Mr. Lodge. Just in case you've unintentionally-"

 

He pushes past her, but not roughly, not really, deposits his briefcase on the reception desk and flips it open. The receptionist is suddenly very, very engrossed in checking something on the computer monitor beside her.

 

The briefcase is empty save for his Mont Blanc fountain pen, a compact black umbrella and a copy of today's _New York Times_.

 

"Satisfied?" he asks Karen.

 

She doesn't say anything, but simply steps forward and checks the interior pockets of his briefcase one by one before going through the contents of the box. It doesn't take long.

 

Julian watches her, knowing it's pointless and that she'll find nothing, but then, that's hardly the point of this exercise. As they are both well aware, the point is to put him through one last, petty public humiliation. He'll endure it, because he has no choice. But he won't forget it.

 

"You're very thorough," he comments once Karen's done.

 

"The firm looks after its assets, Mr. Lodge," she says as she carefully closes his briefcase and hands it back to him. There's no trace of irony in her voice.

 

He doesn't bother saying goodbye before striding out, back ramrod straight as he musters all the dignity available to someone with five generations of prominent lawyers and judges behind him.

 

His dignified exit is ruined for the second time by the elevators, one of which appears to be out of order and the other of which seems set to spend the rest of eternity on the eighth floor. He can feel the stares from the reception area boring into the back of his neck during the endless wait, but he won't give them the satisfaction of watching him bolt for the fire stairs. Finally, the elevator turns up, the doors close behind him, and he's gone.

 

It's cool and overcast outside on the street. Even the air feels relieved that it's all over.

 

*

 

When Julian arrives home, he goes up to his bedroom and puts his briefcase away in its place on the bottom shelf of the armoire, just as usual. He selects a set of casual clothes to change into, also just as usual. But he pauses in the act of removing his bow tie, and glances over at his reflection in the mirror. He watches, feeling like a spectator observing from some distance, as his fingers pull the tie loose from his neck, and a moment later it's just a strip of cloth hanging from his hand.

 

He pads downstairs in bare feet. Feeling reckless, he opens a bottle of Manzanilla sherry without taking the trouble to chill it first, pours himself a glass, and heads back upstairs to his study. His fingers tremble ever so slightly as he turns on the computer and keys in his password. He takes a long sip of the sherry, swallowing it down as he clicks through to the folder that he's seeking. He lets his breath out in a rush: the files are all still there, just where he left them.

 

Had they really imagined that he would be so stupid as to carry something of this nature with him while on his way out the door for the very last time?

 

Julian selects all the files, and considers them for a long moment, highlighted and horribly conspicuous on the screen. His finger hovers over the 'delete' button for an even longer moment, but in the end he copies every last document across to his USB drive. It doesn't take long at all. Once everything is copied, he deletes the originals from the computer's hard drive. He takes the USB drive and glances around the room. The desk drawer is far too obvious, so he dismisses it immediately. The cabinet in the corner where he locks away the working papers relating to his current cases- it's empty right now - likewise. Apart from a few dark, tastefully masculine landscapes done in oils that he picked up in the spring from his favorite Chelsea dealer, the walls are bare, so there's nothing useful there.

 

He goes into the bedroom, opens the armoire and pulls out the top drawer. A dozen pairs of black socks, neatly rolled, line the left hand side. He takes a sock from a pair right at the back, slips the USB drive into the toe, rolls the socks back up and puts them back in place. The contents of the drawer look just as innocent and innocuous as before. Julian almost smiles.

 

Then he goes back downstairs to retrieve the rest of the bottle of sherry.

 

*

 

It takes Julian several weeks to reach the reluctant conclusion that while his own contacts and connections in the legal world are excellent, those of his former employers are significantly better. After the fifth interview and/or informal chat that goes precisely nowhere, he admits that there isn't a job for him in New York right now, so he puts out a few feelers in the direction of Boston. The same message comes back.

 

He considers flying down to DC. That's always been his final trump card, held carefully in reserve, but something inside him rebels at the thought of playing it too soon. Of going back there too soon. The down side of knowing so many people there is that… he knows so many people there. Too many of them will ask questions, and poke and pry. Still, it's an option.

 

Of course, he could go back to New Hampshire and take the position with the family firm that's always had his name on it. He could, but he won't. That option's simply not an option.

 

His thoughts stray frequently to the documents lying hidden in his sock drawer, but just as frequently he concludes that now is not the moment to try that particular course of action. There are too many risks involved, and too many of them currently beyond his reach. If Julian believes in anything he believes in effective risk management – when it comes to himself, anyway. He'll push someone else out the metaphorical window if he's left with no better option, but he's not at all keen on the idea if they're just going to drag him down with them. Not unless he has the opportunity to put a safety-net-for-one in place first.

 

Despite the fact that his options are drying up with alarming speed in every other direction he looks, he's not quite sure what makes him decide to apply to Kirk and McGee in Pittsburgh. Maybe it's just the sheer ridiculousness of the notion of him, Julian Lodge, former up and coming star of Lampell, Lowenstein and Burke, and, before that, senior law clerk to Chief Justice Brankin of the United States Supreme Court, even considering going anywhere near a nowhere place like Pittsburgh, never mind expressing interest in going there to join a middle tier outfit like Kirk and McGee.

 

Naturally, he doesn't share these sentiments with William "Call me Bill" McGee when he travels to Pittsburgh one gray Thursday. Their little chat goes well. McGee isn't interested in what made Julian decide to leave New York so much as he wants to know what's bringing him to Pittsburgh. Julian knows better than to lay it on too thick in praising the reputation of Kirk and McGee. Lawyers with as much experience as Bill McGee may enjoy that sort of flattery, but it will also set off their bullshit detectors quicker then anything else. So Julian simply mentions that Kirk and McGee's reputation had preceded them – which isn't actually a lie. A dispute over a will drawn up rather ineptly by Kirk and McGee for the late father of one of Julian's New York clients had triggered a court case that had generated several months of profitable business for LLB. Not that he's going to share that particular detail with Bill McGee, either.

 

When McGee asks him if he has any other reason for coming to Pittsburgh, Julian is ready for him. He smiles and allows his expression to become a little bashful as he admits that there could also be a personal reason that brings him here. Again, it's not actually a lie. Being all but blacklisted in New York and Boston is about as personal as it gets. Of course, Julian doesn't elaborate and McGee doesn't press further, but later, after the position of third year associate has been offered and accepted, Bill McGee shakes Julian's hand, welcomes him aboard and expresses the hope that Julian will be in a position to introduce the 'personal reason' to his wife in time. Julian makes some sort of appropriate, non-committal response. And then the deed is done.

 

The elevator is slow to arrive, and Julian experiences a moment of unwelcome déjà vu. He reached for his tie to straighten it; the Windsor knot feels flat and strange to the touch, even though he hasn't worn a bow tie in weeks, since his last day at LLB. There's a bow tie waiting with his other clothes back at the hotel. He packed it at the last minute, and now he's not even sure why he brought it with him.

 

Julian pats his necktie into place as the elevator arrives. He's still trying to shake off the uneasy feeling gripping him as the elevator doors close behind him.

 

Julian walks out onto the street, fully intending to see some of the city before he goes back to New York. He has no real interest in Pittsburgh – by which he means none at all – but he's decided that he should at least spend a few hours getting to know the layout of the place before he actually moves here. He's even intending to stay an entire night and has booked a room at the Hyatt Regency – an easy selection since it's the only one of the airport hotels that's actually connected to the terminal. At least he'll be able to make a quick getaway.

 

He gets halfway down the street before a flash of lightning announces the arrival of the storm that's been threatening all day. Within minutes of the first large drop hitting Julian's cheek, the rain is coming down in torrents. His umbrella is little defense against the sheer volume of water washing down and being buoyed along the street by the wind. He spots a liquor store on the corner, its gaudy sign looming above the pedestrians scurrying to get out of the rain. Julian sprints the last dozen yards and gratefully ducks inside.

 

He's greeted with a less than friendly look from the burly, tattooed guy behind the counter, who looks like he's regretting agreeing to mind the store in preference to his usual gig, which is no doubt with a biker gang. The store is filled with people whose states range from damp to outright saturated. They're milling about, stopping frequently by the window to look out at the rain, but no one seems to be buying much, which would account for the shop assistant's sour expression. Julian scans the wines on the shelves in front of him: more whites than reds, mostly Californian, plus some Canadian ice wine and a smattering of other undistinguished imports. Nothing remotely unexpected, in other words. He moves along to the liquor section, not expecting any surprises here, either. Vodka, gin, brandy, bourbon, scotch… Julian blinks as he spots the modest selection of quite decent single malt scotch arrayed along the top shelf. It probably really is too much to expect that the stock in a randomly happened-upon liquor store in Pittsburgh will run to Julian's preferred 25-year-old Ardbeg, but there's a ten-year-old Laphroaig sitting there that's more than acceptable. And priced very competitively, too. Perhaps the rainstorm isn't such a bad turn of events after all, despite his sodden trouser cuffs. He'll even go so far as to call it serendipitous.

 

He's feeling a lot less charitable towards Pittsburgh once he's back out on the street and trying in vain to flag down a cab before some one else grabs it. Before long, his socks are squelching in his (usually) immaculately polished black Oxfords while a steady drip makes its way slowly down the back of his neck and beneath his collar. All in all, he's more than a little bedraggled. In the end, after seeing occupied cab after occupied cab drive past, he has to share the ride most of the way with a large older lady. This involves being squashed into the corner and pushed up hard against the door handle by the combined force of his companion's numerous shopping bags, voluminous handbag and extremely large black umbrella in addition to her personal bulk. She glares at him at first, but he puts on his best disarming smile and by the time the cab drops her off she pats his hand and wishes him a good evening.

 

Julian settles back into the seat and spreads out for the last bit of the journey, and now his smile's genuine. He hasn't lost his touch with the ladies. The tiny thrill of victory warms him all the way to his hotel room.

 

After being reinvigorated by a long hot shower, he decides against ordering room service. Instead, he changes into the spare suit he brought with him in case of just such an eventuality, and makes his way downstairs to the hotel restaurant. It's early, and the place is all but empty. He's ushered to a small table opposite the main window. It's not a bad spot – not the best table in the house but certainly not Siberia either – and allows him to observe much of what goes on elsewhere in the restaurant without being observed in turn by diners at all the other tables. Julian doesn't mind being noticed, when he wishes to be noticed, but he shrinks from being conspicuous. Conspicuous in this case being the solitary guy – the solitary _loud_ guy – seated at a similarly small table right near the center of the room and currently addressing the hapless waiter in an irate tone while jabbing a finger at the glass of water that has just been placed on the table before him.

 

"Do you see that? Right there, stuck to the side of the glass?"

 

"You mean the slice of lemon, sir?" the waiter asks.

 

"I'm glad to see that your eyes are working even if your brain isn't."

 

"I'm sorry, sir?"

 

"When I asked which of the items on the menu included citrus I did mean _everything_, including the water," the guy says in withering tones.

 

"I'm very sorry, sir. I'll get you another glass of water immediately." The waiter is trained well, his expression impassive and tone apologetic, betraying no personal sentiment whatsoever.

 

"And make sure you don't just take the lemon out of that one and then try to give it to me again, or re-use the glass with fresh water. The whole thing's been contaminated."

 

"Of course, sir."

 

"I'm deathly allergic!" the guy calls out after the waiter, who is already making a hurried retreat in the direction of the kitchen with the offending glass of water.

 

Julian bites his lip on a smile, and goes back to perusing the menu. There's nothing new and exciting to be found there. The dishes are all safe, middle-of-the-road offerings. Julian orders a Caesar salad followed by the filet mignon, mainly because he's in the mood for a glass of red with his meal. Perhaps more than one glass. He orders the J. Lohr Merlot before the waiter has a chance to suggest the house Cabernet Sauvignon.

 

When his filet mignon arrives Julian holds up one hand to the waiter, who is already hovering with a large pepper grinder at the ready. "I always carry my own," he explains. The waiter's eyes widen as Julian pulls his personal pepper grinder out of his trouser pocket and proceeds to cover the steak in his preferred highest grade, specially imported Tellicherry pepper.

 

The waiter has recovered his impassive front and is gone again by the time Julian re-pockets his pepper grinder, but when he looks up from his plate he discovers that he's acquired a different spectator. Loud guy is watching Julian's every move like he's never seen anyone grind pepper onto their food before. Julian raises his eyebrows and quirks the corner of his mouth into a questioning smile. Loud guy looks away quickly, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Julian's smile grows broader, and then he turns his attention back to his steak.

 

The events of the past couple of months catch up with Julian partway through dinner, and by the time he finishes his entrée they've overtaken him completely. He's already gotten through two glasses of Merlot and he's in the mood to keep drinking awhile, but the wine list is unforthcoming when it comes to any remotely palatable dessert wine. He glances across the room, and finds that the waiter is clearing away the plates at the empty table where loud guy had been seated.

 

Julian decides to go back to his room, where the Laphroaig is waiting.

 

He's about halfway from the restaurant to the elevators, just going past the entrance to the bar, when he hears an unmistakable voice rising above the murmur of conversation coming from within.

 

"And you attached a huge wedge of lime to my glass why, exactly? Did I ask for it?" There's a very short pause, before loud guy's voice returns, even louder than before. "Do you realize that you could have killed me with that?"

 

There's a slightly longer pause while the bartender says something inaudible.

 

"Thank you," loud guy says, not sounding thankful in the slightest. "I'll try a Scotch and soda this time. It's about the least potentially dangerous option available on your sorry excuse for a drinks list, and I sincerely hope that not even this establishment would attempt to adulterate _that_ with citrus."

 

After waiting another moment, during which loud guy is not summarily ejected by the bartender, Julian decides his own Scotch will wait a little while longer. It's already waited ten years, after all. Right now, he needs another glass of Merlot.

 

The bar is starting to fill up, but there are still plenty of vacant tables available. Julian chooses a seat at the bar, coincidentally right next to the source of the recent disturbance. The bartender plonks a drink in an Old Fashioned glass down on the bar in front of loud guy. There's no trace of anything resembling citrus anywhere in the glass, but the look on the bartender's face says that he was sorely tempted. Loud guy eyes the glass suspiciously and then takes a careful sip, then another.

 

"Okay, that seems to be acceptable," he says grudgingly, but Julian notices that he keeps an eye on his watch, no doubt keeping track of exactly how long it is since he took the first sip.

 

The bartender takes Julian's order and bustles off to fetch the wine. Julian settles onto the barstool as comfortably as is possible. He shakes out his cuffs and carefully adjusts them.

 

Abruptly, loud guy turns and addresses Julian. "Are you following me?" he asks.

 

"No, of course not," Julian says, aware as soon as he says it that his assertion is just a tad more defensive and less outraged than it needs to be in order to be properly pulled off.

 

"They sent you, didn't they," the guy, suddenly no longer so loud, says in a low voice.

 

"Nobody sent me," Julian tells him. "And I have no idea who 'they' are."

 

"Don't lie," the guy growls. "Hammond sent you after me, didn't he?"

 

"No, he didn't," Julian growls back.

 

"Then maybe it was someone-" The guy snaps his fingers. "It was O'Neill, wasn't it?"

 

"No, it wasn't!" Julian insists, getting annoyed now. He knows the prudent course of action would be to stop engaging in conversation with this dangerous lunatic and get the hell out of here. But he's not feeling prudent tonight.

 

"And of course you expect me to just believe that," the guy says scornfully.

 

"Look, I don't know who this Hammond is, or O'Neill, or who you are for that matter. Nobody sent me. I just came in here for a drink."

 

"You're sure?" the guy asks, narrow-eyed.

 

"Of course I'm sure!"

 

"Hmmn, you don't really look the part," he admits, looking Julian up and down. Julian tries not to squirm, feeling as if he's being stripped bare by a pair of penetrating blue eyes.

 

Apparently, the guy doesn't find whatever it is he's looking for, because after a moment he visibly relaxes and even looks a little sheepish.

 

"Okay. So you're not… Uh, sorry. I guess," he says awkwardly.

 

It's the perfect cue for Julian to make a strategic exit, to take his leave and then get out of there fast. But he still doesn't do that. Maybe it's the wine. Or maybe he's just desperate for some company, any company, to stop him from holing up in his room by himself and drowning his sorrows in a bottle.

 

"Long day?" he hears himself asking.

 

"Why do you want to know?" the guy snaps, immediately back on alert.

 

"Just making conversation," Julian says easily. "I'm not one of 'them' - remember?"

 

"Yes, right. Um, sorry?" This apology sounds even more uncertain and rusty than the first one, like it's not something the guy does very often - which it almost certainly isn't, if Julian's any judge. And Julian's a very good judge of the sorts of little tells through which people habitually reveal themselves, usually without having any idea that they're doing it. Which is not to say that this guy's tells are little. Subtlety seems to be a foreign concept to him on any and every level.

 

Julian takes a sip from the glass of Merlot that's materialized in front of him and really looks at the guy properly for the first time. The pair of blue eyes he'd already noticed stare back at him. They're set in a strong face: firm jaw and sharp nose that give an impression of angularity that's not echoed in the guy's solid frame. He has unremarkable sandy brown hair, the beginnings of a receding hairline at the front counterbalanced by the unfashionably longer hair around the sides. He looks like he's dressed up for something, though the standards of dress in his world, like the hairstyles, are clearly very different from Julian's own. He's wearing a green striped tie that somehow achieves the singular feat of completely failing to match _or_ complement his light gray check jacket. His lips are thin and slanted in an unhappy line. The guy looks tired. Very tired.

 

"So, I take it today was a long day?" Julian tries again.

 

"God, the longest," the guy groans. "It started with the job interview from hell and went downhill from there."

 

"Job interview? What's your line of work?" Julian asks, genuinely curious. Whatever this guy does, odds are it's not anything dull. "If you don't mind my asking, of course," he adds.

 

The guy waves a hand. "Oh, that's not a secret," he says.

 

Interesting. So his profession isn't a secret but that answer implies that something else is.

 

"So what's your field? One of the sciences, perhaps?" Given that dressing for success clearly isn't a high priority, it seems the most likely option.

 

"What? I don't look like an art professor?" the guy asks, looking down at himself as if the answer could be written there in ink. For a fleeting second after he looks up again his expression is almost amused.

 

"Not remotely," says Julian. "I studied art history in college," he explains.

 

"You're not trying to tell me you're an art history professor." It isn't a question.

 

Julian chuckles, the first time he's laughed all day. Possibly the first time he's laughed at all in over a month. "No, that was just a secondary interest. I'm an attorney."

 

The guy looks not so much unimpressed as disappointed. As though Julian had said he's "only" an attorney

 

"I clerked for the… a justice of the Supreme Court," Julian says, and then immediately wishes the words unsaid. Even without mentioning the chief justice, he's given this guy whose name he doesn't even know more than enough information to track down his identity, if he wishes to do so.

 

"That's pretty impressive in many people's eyes, I suppose," the guy says flatly, sounding deeply uninterested.

 

Julian looks hard into those keen eyes and that curiously, almost aggressively open face, and he doesn't see the capacity for easy deceit lying there. He hears the echo of his grandmother's voice from long ago, telling him that most people look for their own faults in others.

 

He doesn't savor the next sip of Merlot; it's not so much a sip as a gulp.

 

"My career really was impressive. Until a few months ago," the guy continues.

 

"Really?" Julian loads the word with irony but isn't terribly surprised when the guy fails to pick up on it. Julian gives up, for the moment, and nods for him to elaborate.

 

"Really. I'm an astrophysicist," the guy says, as if everything important is contained in that single statement. And probably, in his eyes, it is.

 

"Really?" Julian says again, but without (much of) the added irony this time. "I wouldn't have thought there would be a high demand for astrophysicists in Pittsburgh."

 

"Oh, there isn't. The job I interviewed for today was more to do with mechanical engineering." He sighs and looks morosely down into his glass.

 

"I'm not quite seeing the connection here," Julian says slowly.

 

"My second PhD is in mechanical engineering," the guy explains.

 

Julian's eyes widen. "That's… impressive," he says.

 

"Yes, it is," the guy agrees. "I'm a genius, and probably the single most intelligent person you'll ever meet in your life."

 

No false modesty there, then. Julian quickly takes another sip of Merlot to hide his smile. There's clearly little point in taking offense at this sort of arrogance, as innocent as it is monumental. In Julian's experience, it's the sort of arrogance displayed only by people who really are as smart as they say they are.

 

"So why the mechanical engineering job?" he asks as he sets his glass back down on the bar. "You clearly view yourself as an astrophysicist first and foremost. I'd imagine that someone of your caliber could have his pick of work in his chosen field."

 

"Yes, you'd think so, wouldn't you?" the guy agrees. "The truth is, I… fucked up. Pretty badly. Or at least certain people decided the fuck-up was my fault. Someone died," he says heavily, and downs about a third of the contents of his glass in one go.

 

"So Hammond and O'Neill were part of the last job?" Julian guesses, watching the guy's throat work as he swallows.

 

"Oh, yeah," says the guy, looking at his glass instead of at Julian. "And Carter. She's almost certainly the one who's poisoned the employment waters for me."

 

"How so?"

 

"She's also an astrophysicist, if a deeply flawed one. She moves in the same circles. All it would take would be a well-placed comment here or there in just the right places and… I can feel the academic chill rippling out even here in Pittsburgh."

 

Julian's hand closes tight around the stem of his wine glass, but he keeps his voice as carefully neutral as before when he says, "But wouldn't your publications go some way to counterbalancing that sort of thing?"

 

"They would, if it weren't for the fact that I've spent a large proportion of my career working for the government. There's an embargo on my publishing about any of my work for… well, maybe for ever."

 

"It's that hush-hush, huh?" Julian says.

 

"Like you wouldn't believe."

 

There doesn't seem to be much to say to that. They fall into a silence that's more companionable than it probably should be. Julian drains his glass just as the guy gets to the end of his drink.

 

"Another drink?" Julian asks.

 

The guy sighs. "Why not? It's not like I planned on being stuck in Pittsburgh tonight."

 

"Stuck?"

 

"Of course I'm stuck! Haven't you noticed what the weather's doing out there?" He gestures in the direction of the window, where the rain is still lashing against the pane. "I wasted hours at the airport this afternoon, while the airline staff repeatedly assured me that my flight would be departing 'soon'. Eventually they admitted that all flights out of Pittsburgh were delayed indefinitely, so I came over here and got a room for the night."

 

Julian nods, grinning inside at the mental image of the no doubt very loud scene at the airport, and makes a note to get there as early as possible in the morning. "I was already booked in here, just for the one night before going home tomorrow. I was in town for an interview, too," he feels the need to explain, despite the fact that the guy hasn't asked.

 

The guy just looks at him, seeming not to have any idea what to say in response to that, so Julian takes up the conversational gauntlet again.

 

"Maybe we should exchange names, since we've already exchanged work histories?" he suggests. "Or is your name as hush-hush as your work?"

 

"Oh, yeah. I mean, sure," the guy says, clearly caught by surprise. "I'm Rodn- Ronni- Ron… Call me Rod."

 

_Yeah, right_, Julian thinks. "Good to meet you, Rod. I'm… John," he says smoothly, and holds out his hand.

 

Rod eyes it warily, like he's not used to people wanting to shake hands with him when they don't have to, but after a second he takes it. Julian knows that you can tell a lot about a man from his handshake. Rod's is firm and not at all perfunctory. If anything, his hand lingers just the tiniest bit too long, the palm warm and dry against Julian's. It serves to make Julian that little bit surer of a few things he's already been wondering about Rod.

 

Julian signals the bartender for another round. When their drinks arrive, Julian indicates a free table in the corner. "Want to take these over there?"

 

"God, yes. These bar stools are even more uncomfortable than the seats at the airport."

 

The effects of the wine hit Julian as soon as he stands up. He takes care to hold himself steady as he makes his way across the room and manages not to spill a single drop of wine along the way. Rod isn't so successful, but most of his Scotch is still in the glass when they settle into the somewhat more comfortable seats at the table.

 

By the time they reach the bottom of their glasses, Julian knows a great deal more about Rod, if not his real name or much about what, exactly, his former employment entailed. He knows that Rod's originally from Canada and that his only close living relative is his sister but "the less said about her, the better." He knows that Rod's favorite super hero as a child was Batman. He knows that Rod isn't fussy about his food, once he's made sure that it doesn't contain any citrus. And he knows that the people who used to employ Rod were sufficiently influential that they were about to forcibly put him on a plane to send him off to work in Russia but then whoever-it-was died and they decided to kick him out completely instead.

 

In return, Julian shares a few minor details about himself, but Rod doesn't seem to care much about his reticence. He seems grateful for the chance to unload, and Julian guesses that he hasn't had the opportunity to do so in quite some time.

 

The bartender comes by to take away their empty glasses.

 

"Another?" Rod asks.

 

Julian shakes his head. "No, thanks. I'd really better get to bed soon."

 

"Right, of course," Rod says quickly, but Julian doesn't miss the sudden flash of something – disappointment? – in his eyes, and the way he draws himself up, like he's gathering himself in and barring his personal doors against threats from outside. In another instant Rod's on his feet. "Good night, then," he adds stiffly.

 

"Hey, not so fast. I was just going to say: I've got a good bottle of Scotch up in my room if you'd like to share a glass with me," Julian says.

 

"Uh, no. Thanks. That is, no thanks, uh, John. I think I'd better hit the hay," Rod says awkwardly.

 

Julian gets up as well. Now his head really is spinning. "May as well get the elevator together," he says.

 

"Sure," Rod says.

 

As they make their way out of the bar, Julian's not sure whether Rod's listing sideways or the room is. He suspects it might be both. He flinches at the brightness of the lights in the hotel lobby and almost trips, but somehow they manage to make it to the elevators without incident. The elevator is already waiting and opens immediately, much to Julian's relief. He closes his eyes for a moment once he gets inside, and when he opens them again Rod is clumsily pressing the button for the sixth floor. Well, at least that's one less thing that Julian has to worry about.

 

"Looks like we're on the same floor. Sure you don't want to stop by my room for that drink?" Julian asks.

 

"Um, really-" Rod begins.

 

"No problem," says Julian, holding up his hands in mock-surrender. "Just thought I'd check."

 

They get out at the sixth floor and when Julian turns to the right, so does Rod. They share a sideways look and then walk down the hallway together in silence. Julian stops at room 607, while Rod continues on… all the way to room 608, right next door.

 

They share another look.

 

"Okay then. One last drink!" Rod says, rolling his eyes. But he's looking more relaxed again, and the remote, defensive manner has disappeared.

 

Julian grins at him and opens the door.

 

Rod stumbles just after he makes it over the threshold and into the room, pushing Julian up hard against the bathroom door. He grabs hold of Julian's upper arms, perhaps just to steady himself, but it really can't be an accident, can it? Julian doesn't think so, not after all the little signals Rod's been telegraphing all evening, right since the restaurant. He decides to take what's being freely offered and captures Rod's lips in a kiss.

 

Rod's grip on his shoulders grows tighter, but he's not really kissing back, so after a moment Julian draws back. "Everything okay?" he asks.

 

"I'm just… why?" Rod looks bewildered, but Julian notices that he still doesn't let go.

 

"Why not?" says Julian. "Unless you don't want…" He waves his hand in a gesture that encompasses the two of them.

 

"I'm not- This sort of thing doesn't usually happen to me."

 

"Is that a no?"

 

Rod creases his brow before answering, clearly considering, and Julian's heart – along with certain other parts of him – prepares to sink.

 

"No, actually it's not. A no, I mean," Rod says.

 

Julian's sigh of relief is heartfelt, and lost in the next kiss, which is desperate and greedy and everything that Julian needs tonight. Rod's hands move restlessly up and down Julian's sides, trying to find their way under Julian's jacket and vest and shirt and hell, he's wearing far too many clothes. He's about to push Rod away for a moment so that he can rid himself of some of his clothing, but Rod chooses that moment to press hard against him, completely on purpose this time, shoving Julian back against the door. He can feel every inch of Rod, can feel him getting hard against Julian's thigh while Julian moans into the kiss and pushes back just as hard against Rod, and in another moment they're rocking together and Rod's making small sounds deep in his throat in time with each thrust and Christ! If they keep this up neither of them is going to last very long at all.

 

Julian tears himself away and ends up leaning against the wall, panting. He can hear Rod's echoing breaths coming from behind him.

 

"Bed," he says, his voice harsh and low.

 

Rod doesn't need asking twice. Before Julian has a chance to at least shuck off his jacket, or even mention it as an idea, Rod is pushing-pulling-dragging him across the room and suddenly Julian is lying on the bed on his back, with Rod stretched out on top of him. Rod kisses him again, briefly, and then his lips abandon Julian's mouth, but only so they can trace a string of kisses, interspersed with the occasional gentle bite, along the line of Julian's jaw. Julian's eyes flutter closed, and he lies back and lets it happen. This is always the best thing of all with a man, being done to. He can feel Rod's hard cock pushing into his thigh, somehow much more intimate in this position than it was before, while their legs tangle together below. Rod's mouth reaches his ear, sucking the lobe into his mouth and that's it, Julian's reached his limit. He bucks and rolls his hips, rubbing along the ridge of Rod's erection, and forcing a satisfying gasp out of him. He buries his face into Julian's neck, his breath hot and wet and desperate against Julian's skin.

 

Doing in return isn't bad, either.

 

Julian moves again, wriggling a bit to move them closer to the middle of the bed and then it's his turn to gasp – in pain. He reaches down to his pocket and pulls out the pepper grinder that he keeps there. Rod lifts his head, and cranes his neck around to see what Julian's doing.

 

"What are you- Oh! That."

 

Julian shrugs, or would do if he wasn't pretty much pinned to the bed. "Yes, _that_. What can I say? There's nothing wrong in preferring the best. That includes the best pepper, so I carry my own supply."

 

"I saw you – before, in the restaurant. I… wondered."

 

"I saw you wondering, and you got me wondering as well," Julian says with a smirk. He reaches out and deposits the pepper grinder carefully on the night stand. Then he insinuates his hand between their bodies, cups Rod's cock through the barrier of cloth and squeezes gently.

 

Rod's eyes close on a heaving breath.

 

"I think maybe it's time to get out of a few of these clothes," Julian suggests. Rod obligingly rolls to one side, but before Julian can sit up, Rod's straddling Julian's right leg and his hands are busy at the buttons of Julian's vest.

 

"Who wears a three piece suit anymore?" Rod asks as he pulls the vest open and starts undoing the knot of Julian's tie.

 

"I do. Like I said, there's nothing wrong in preferring the best. And careful – don't strangle me!" Julian's hands come up protectively to his throat.

 

Rod bats Julian's hands out of the way and pulls the tie free, then starts on Julian's shirt buttons, and soon Julian is lying there, naked to the waist while still – technically – clad in shirt, vest and jacket. Rod lets his eyes travel all over Julian's exposed flesh, and then he follows up with his hands, starting with fingertips stroking centerwards along Julian's collar bone then moving lower and running his fingers gently through Julian's chest hair, stopping to roll each nipple between thumb and forefinger until they've tightened into hard little pebbles and Julian is shuddering helplessly, at the mercy of Rod's too-knowing touch.

 

It's almost too much to bear, and yet when the hands abruptly disappear Julian opens his mouth to object, but Rod's already moving off him.

 

"My turn," Rod says, as he lets his jacket fall to the floor and starts unfastening his tie.

 

Julian pulls himself up, shrugs off jacket, vest and shirt, and says, "Allow me."

 

Rod sits back against the pillows, holding his arms loosely at his sides to allow easy access to his shirt buttons. Julian ignores that and makes straight for what's below the waist instead. It only takes a moment to loosen Rod's belt and slip a hand down past his waistband, and then Julian's holding the prize at last, a warm satisfying weight in his hand. Julian slides his hand up and down in a loose clasp, and smiles to himself as he feels Rod's dick jump against his palm. Rod leans forward and grabs him, pulls him close, and kisses him again. Hard, probing kisses this time, all wet lips and tongue.

 

They keep that up for quite a while, each trying to outdo the other, to tease with hands and lips and cock and tongue until they've elicited the reaction they're after. They pause from time to time, briefly pulling away to rid themselves of another article of clothing, then coming back together with renewed heat until at last they're lying skin against skin, hard cocks grinding together as they moan into a shared kiss that makes up in passion what it lacks in finesse.

 

Rod pulls away again, and this time Julian makes a sound of protest deep in his throat. They've lost all their clothes now; they don't need to stop again.

 

"There's something… Just let me," Rod says, pushing at Julian's hip until Julian gets the idea and rolls onto his side. "Let me just… for a moment," Rod says. He lies down again and his arms come around Julian from behind as he presses in close, spooned against Julian's back. He bites down softly at the juncture of neck and shoulder then laves the abused skin with his tongue. Meanwhile, his hands skim along the sides of Julian's chest, mapping the shape of it, paying special attention to the sensitive spots he previously discovered and lingering there, thumbs gliding over Julian's nipples again and again until at last he wrings a shiver from Julian.

 

Julian tenses as he feels Rod's cock slip down along the crease between his buttocks. But Rod just starts thrusting slowly back and forth, never trying to press inside or take things beyond what he's already doing, and after a little while Julian starts to relax again. He even starts getting into it, pushing back with his hips to meet each of Rod's forward thrusts.

 

It's almost impossible to keep quiet, and before much longer Julian gives up the struggle. "Oh, yeah," he groans. "Just keep doing that. Right there. Don't stop."

 

Rod stops, and Julian lets out some rather more colorful language.

 

Rod's hand slips down and then his fingertips are stroking the same path his cock has lately taken. "Do you want to?" Rod asks.

 

Julian freezes. "No!" It comes out more forcefully than it should. He moderates his tone as he explains, "That's something that I just don't do. Ever."

 

"Oh," Rod says, his disappointment coming through loud and clear in his tone. "You really seemed to be getting into that."

 

"No," Julian repeats firmly, rolling onto his back so that he can glare up at Rod. "I tried that once, and it's really just not for me."

 

"Okay," Rod says. "But do you mind if we go back to what we were doing. I kind of like that."

 

More than kind of, Julian thinks, as he watches Rod's face go an even deeper shade of pink than it already is. It shouldn't look attractive on such a strong-featured face, but somehow it does. Julian rolls back onto his side, relieved to have a reason not to keep meeting Rod's eyes.

 

Julian feels Rod's arm brush his back. A moment later, Rod's hand finds Julian's dick. His palm is wet with what must be saliva, and slides easily, achingly slowly along the hard length of Julian's erection. Then Rod's cock is back, slipperier than before and soon getting steadily slicker and slicker as it rubs back and forth between Julian's legs, sliding across his asshole and along his perineum until the head pushes up against his balls, and all the while Rod's hand is jacking Julian's cock at the same maddeningly slow pace. Rod doesn't stop and doesn't stop and doesn't stop until Julian's lost in a haze of pleasure, barely coherent as he moans words that he doesn't even recognize any more.

 

Then Rod's breath is hot against his ear. "I don't usually do this sort of thing, I really don't. But the moment I saw you sitting in that restaurant, all gorgeous and ridiculously fussy with that stupid pepper grinder I wanted this. I wanted _you_," Rod whispers harshly.

 

Julian wishes he still had the capacity to properly point out that Rod is hardly in a position to criticize anyone for being ridiculously fussy with their food.

 

"God, I just really want to fuck you through this bed and into the middle of next week," Rod gasps.

 

The sounds Julian makes then don't contain any words at all.

 

"Should I take that to mean that you might be reconsidering?" Rod asks hopefully.

 

With great effort, Julian pulls himself together sufficiently to grate out, "Yes. Now. Before my better judgment kicks back in." This is going to hurt, he knows that. He's not going to enjoy it much on a physical level, he knows that, too. But right now he really wants to feel, wants the sort of completion that only this final act can bring. It will be worth any accompanying discomfort.

 

He _hopes_ it will be worth any accompanying discomfort.

 

Rod gets up and Julian hears the rustle of cloth as Rod starts digging through the clothes piled haphazardly on the floor.

 

"Got anything slippery?" Rod asks, already heading for the bathroom.

 

Julian's not in the habit of traveling with his own supply of lube as well as his own supply of pepper, but maybe he should consider it in future. He casts his mind over the contents of his toiletry bag. There isn't anything there that will really serve the purpose properly, except maybe-

 

"Try the shea butter. L'Occitane, in the flat round container with the yellow label."

 

"Are you sure there's no citrus in this?" Rod asks dubiously, as he returns, the tin of shea butter in hand.

 

"It's 100 per cent organic."

 

"So are most sources of citrus."

 

"It's 100 per cent organic _shea butter_, which has the added advantage of melting at body temperature."

 

"Sounds like it just might work, then," Rod says. Julian feels the mattress dip as Rod scoots up behind him. "Now where were we, exactly?" he says against Julian's ear.

 

Julian sighs as Rod's cock slides back between his legs. Before long, Julian's climbed right back to the brink, which is, of course, when Rod moves away again. Julian just barely bites back a whine. He hears the soft clink of the tin of shea butter being set down on the nightstand and he can't stop his muscles from tensing in anticipation. Then Rod's fingers are there, warm and slippery and moving in relentless circles against his skin.

 

Julian's breath catches as Rod pushes a finger inside, and then he breathes out again, slow and carefully controlled. It doesn't hurt. It feels sort of… good, in fact. Julian can do this. He can. It will be fine.

 

Rod's finger slides in further, skates over _something_ and Julian cries out. So much for control.

 

Rod's finger stills. "Is this still okay?" he says. "Because I can stop if you-"

 

"Do that again," Julian says.

 

He can't see Rod's face but he knows there's a smug little smile playing on Rod's lips right now.

 

Rod takes his time with this, too, so Julian's actually wanting – hanging out for – the added pressure by the time Rod introduces a second finger. He pushes back hard onto Rod's hand. It feels good. Better than good. He makes a long, low noise in his throat and lets his body fall into the rhythm being set by Rod's fingers.

 

When Rod removes his hand again Julian reaches around to halt whatever he's doing – reaching for more shea butter, probably – because he's had enough teasing. He wants to get to the action. Preferably before they both die of old age.

 

"Enough," Julian says. "I'm ready."

 

Rod doesn't need to be told twice. Julian hears him ripping open a condom, feels Rod moving around on the bed behind him, and then Rod's pressing up against his back again and Julian feels the blunt head of his cock, right there, exactly where it's supposed to be because that's what Julian's asked for.

 

It feels overly large, taking up a lot more space than logic dictates, based on its real size, just like the last time Julian tried this. There's pressure hard against the puckered entrance and just inside, but it doesn't hurt. It makes Julian feel as if he's being filled right up even though Rod hasn't pushed in deep at all. It's not an unpleasant sensation.

 

Rod clutches hard at Julian's hip and mutters, "Christ, that feels great," and then he's moving, in quick, shallow thrusts. Julian throws back his head and bites his lip against a moan as he clenches hard around Rod's cock. Then it's Rod's turn to moan. He changes his angle slightly, his fingers digging hard into Julian's skin, and then he's pushing in for real, a long, hard thrust that takes him all the way in.

 

Julian gasps, and he's not entirely sure why. It still doesn't hurt, and while he's more than a little turned on, it's not the promise of orgasm that he's feeling. Not quite. It's just… intense. Really, _really_ intense.

 

Rod moves again, pulling almost all the way out and then back in again, going harder and faster and then Julian's being fucked for real. He can feel Rod's breath hot against the back of his neck, can hear Rod moaning constantly. No, it can't be. Rod's started whispering god knows what in Julian's ear, but the moaning in the background hasn't stopped. Julian closes his eyes against the realization. It's him. Those noises are coming from his own mouth.

 

Rod's movements are getting harder and faster, an edge of desperation to them now. His hand reaches round clumsily to find Julian's cock but it's already too late because he's suddenly, finally already there. He hangs there, caught up in the perfection of it for an infinite instant, and then he falls. Julian convulses, blinding pleasure ripping through him and taking him over until there's nothing else left.

 

Julian drifts back down to something like a normal awareness of his surroundings to the feel of Rod shuddering against him and pulsing inside him. Rod releases his iron grip on Julian and flops down on the bed, panting hard. They stay like that until Rod's breath settles, and then he pulls out.

 

It's ridiculous to feel bereft. Julian actively didn't want this as recently as a bare handful of minutes ago.

 

Rod ties off the condom and tosses it in the direction of the wastepaper bin by the window. He misses the bin by inches.

 

"I'll get it later," he says.

 

Julian, who has something of a reputation as a neat freak in certain circles, doesn't even twitch. He feel like all his bones have turned to rubber, and he's so filled with satisfied lethargy that he's not sure he has the strength to move his limbs, or even tilt his head. Hell, even lifting his eyelids is hard going right now. But he feels a sense of completion, something that he's never really achieved through sex before. His career has provided something close to it, at times – the day he was appointed to Chief Justice Brankin's staff being a case in point – but even that was never anything quite this… physical.

 

It turns out that what he's been avoiding all this time is exactly what he's been in want of. He supposes he should regret past wasted opportunities, but he truthfully can't bring himself to care. Right now he feels relaxed and loose and free like never before. It's the best feeling in the world to lie back and close his eyes and let himself just _be_ for a while.

 

Rod presses in closer against his side, his head heavy against Julian's shoulder. He seems to be almost as wiped out as Julian himself. He moves his left arm up and lays it across Julian's chest.

 

"John," he murmurs drowsily.

 

Julian's eyes fly open.

 

"I'm not," Julian says, the words seeming to come out of his mouth automatically.

 

"Not what?"

 

"John's not my name."

 

"Oh." Rod pauses, apparently considering this. "Well, it's not really surprising. My name's not Rod."

 

"No kidding," says Julian.

 

"What's that supposed to mean?"

 

"I just mean, you know, Rooooooood," Julian drawls. "It sounds like it's meant to be a come-on."

 

"What? Like 'Hey baby, come ride my big hard rod'?"

 

"Well, I wouldn't have put it quite like that…"

 

"My name is Rodney," Rod – Rodney – says, all wounded dignity.

 

"Oh," Julian says. "Well, that makes sense. Sort of."

 

"I've never been able to get anybody to call me Rod before," Rodney says wistfully.

 

"I can't imagine why," Julian says blandly.

 

"You know, I think maybe I should be going. I've got a room of my own right next door, complete with a bed to sleep on."

 

Rodney gets up off the bed and stomps over to the pile of clothes in the corner. It's one of several piles. In fact, now that Julian takes the time to look around, his room is positively festooned with abandoned items of clothing. He has a vague memory of tossing a few of them over his shoulder at one point.

 

Rodney is now wearing a pair of plain blue boxers and as Julian watches he retrieves his pants – those things are definitely pants rather than trousers – and pulls them on as well. He goes over to the entryway, where a belt buckle is glinting evilly in the shadows. It isn't going to take him long to get dressed the rest of the way, and then he'll be gone.

 

Julian lies back against the pillows and takes a deep breath.

 

"I fucked up," he says.

 

"What?" Rodney says, retrieving his shirt from beside the bar fridge. He still sounds annoyed.

 

"The reason why I was in Pittsburgh today, interviewing with a second rate, provincial law firm. I fucked up in my last job and they… dispensed with my services."

 

Rodney stills, his shirt left dangling from one hand. "You too, huh?"

 

"Me too," Julian agrees.

 

"Do you, uh, want to tell me about it?" Rodney asks awkwardly.

 

"Not really," Julian says. "I can't tell you much, anyway."

 

"What? They made you sign your life away the same way the SG- like my former employers did to me?"

 

"Not exactly," says Julian. He rubs the back of his neck and makes a face. "You've heard of attorney-client privilege?"

 

"Of course," Rodney says, sounding impatient.

 

"That can get… complicated at times. Particularly when your client is also your boss."

 

"Ouch," Rodney says, with what sounds like real sympathy. He comes back across the room and sits down on the edge of the bed, close to Julian.

 

"I was asked to do something," Julian says, keeping his words as non-specific as possible. "Required, actually. But I found that I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I couldn't cross that particular line. Which is funny, in a way, because," – he pauses, swallows hard, and continues – "because right up until that moment I wouldn't have described myself as particularly ethical. Don't get me wrong, I believed in the institution of the law, and I never actually broke any rules, but I used to pride myself on my ability to bend them to suit just about any purpose."

 

Rodney snorts. "Isn't that just about the textbook definition of a lawyer? And hey, at least you weren't instrumental in failing to save someone's life before it was too late."

 

"Not exactly," Julian concedes.

 

"And if someone is endangered by the situation, say, it's not your fault. You did the right thing," Rodney says, twisting around so that he can look Julian straight in the eye.

 

Julian laughs hollowly. "I didn't refuse to do it in order to save anyone. Not really. I was mostly concerned with not incriminating myself, and guarding against potentially career-destroying consequences if… certain parties ever found out."

 

"But your employers weren't exactly pleased, regardless?" Rodney deduces, though it doesn't take a rocket scientist to work that out. Or even an astrophysicist.

 

"You could say that. As far as I can tell, I'm persona non grata at every important law firm from New York to Boston and beyond right now."

 

"The contacts you thought you had didn't turn out to be much help, did they?" Rodney says, his lips twisting bitterly.

 

"Some of them. But there are some I haven't tried. Yet."

 

"So why not one of those instead of Pittsburgh? You clearly don't want to live here any more than I do."

 

"The other options are… problematic. And this was the first place that offered me a chance on my own terms."

 

Rodney nods slowly. He gets it. Of course he does.

 

"I figure it's as good a place as any to wait out the next six months or so. Until things have cooled off a bit." _Or until I decide what to do with the information I've got hidden in my sock drawer_, he adds silently.

 

Julian doesn't feel the need to explain himself any further after that, and Rodney doesn't say anything, either. After about a minute, Rodney starts to fidget. Julian's sure he's going to get up and continue dressing any moment, but then Rodney turns to him and blurts out: "What's your name?"

 

Julian blinks, and says, "Well, that's direct, to say the least."

 

"Sorry, I'm just not really sure what to call you," Rodney says, shaking his head in frustration or annoyance or maybe just to give himself something to do before he blunders into whatever's going to come next. "I'm not terribly good at casual conversation," he says, as if confiding a closely-guarded secret.

 

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," says Julian. He doesn't have to say it because Rodney's already pointed it out. He leans across and kisses Rodney softly on the lips. "Tonight's been good. Better than good."

 

Rodney kisses him back, and yeah, he definitely knows the best ways _not_ to talk with that mouth. Julian falls back against the pillows and pulls Rodney down with him. He's not going to get it up again, not after what they've already done tonight, and most particularly not after all that red wine, but Rodney's warm against him, and as Julian presses his face into Rodney's hair and breathes him in some of his earlier lassitude creeps back in as well.

 

Julian doesn't ask him to stay and Rodney doesn't suggest it, but Julian's pretty sure that neither of them is surprised that Rodney's still there when at last they fall asleep.

 

*

 

The next morning isn't all that awkward, all things considered, though part of that may be the lingering feeling of physical well-being that Julian's experiencing. They awaken slowly, reaching for each other in the soft gray light of early morning, and when they come together it's leisurely and quiet, good in quite another way from how it was between them the night before.

 

The hangover starts to make itself felt once Julian's up and about. He's in the bathroom, having just downed three glasses of water in quick succession,  when Rodney calls a hurried goodbye. Julian hears the main door click shut before he gets as far as opening the bathroom door.

 

Julian tells himself he's glad that Rodney at least knew to make a quick, clean break, and gets into the shower. He tries to ignore the sounds of Rodney banging around on the other side of the wall in the bathroom next door.

 

Julian finishes showering, dries himself out, and goes back to the main room to dress. He's in the act of tying his shoelaces when there's a knock at the door. Julian goes over to answer it and isn't entirely surprised when he finds Rodney standing there.

 

"I just wanted to… I left something here," Rodney explains hurriedly, and pushes past Julian and into the room.

 

Julian watches as Rodney searches the room for whatever it is. He looks behind the curtain and under the bed and even stares hard at the light fittings, but he doesn't appear to be having much success.

 

"If you tell me what it is, I can help you look," Julian suggests.

 

"No, no point. It doesn't seem to be here," Rodney says, getting back on his feet. "Well, I'd better be going."

 

"Goodbye, then," says Julian.

 

"Oh, yes. Goodbye," Rodney says, as if it's an afterthought. He pauses at the door, though, and looks back at Julian.

 

"Oh, and nice tie," he says. "It suits you, the bow tie."

 

"Yeah, I like it," Julian says, fingers going automatically to the carefully folded points at the corners. "I haven't worn one in a while, but today seems like the right time to start again."

 

Rodney, of course, doesn't have any smooth rejoinder ready for that. They stare at each other, and Julian shifts in place.

 

"Well, I'd better be going," Rodney says again.

 

Julian nods, and raises a hand in farewell.

 

Rodney doesn't say anything more. And then he's gone.

 

"Rodney!" Julian calls after him, running out the door to catch him and almost tripping on his shoelaces in the process. Rodney is in the act of opening the door to his room. He stares at Julian, wide-eyed.

 

"You can call me Julian," Julian says. "That's all I- That's all."

 

Rodney can't contain the smile that spreads across his face then. Then again, he's probably not even trying to contain it.

 

"Maybe I'll see you around Pittsburgh, _Julian_," he says.

 

"Maybe," Julian says.

 

He stands there for a long moment after Rodney goes back into his room.

 

On the way back into his own room, Julian reaches down to pick up the newspaper waiting by the door, and the date catches his eye. Friday, October Third. Today's the last Friday before the first Monday in October, an auspicious time of year for new beginnings. For lawyers, anyway. And perhaps for astrophysicists, too.

 

Julian smiles to himself and lets the door close behind him.


End file.
